The Missing Irn Bru
by papaya.sky
Summary: When Scotland goes to enjoy his favourite drink, he finds it missing from the fridge. England and France are included, but no shipping occurs unless you squint.


Arthur's teacup rattled as vibrations echoed throughout his home. Raising a furry brow, the Englishman stood up to investigate, exactly, what was happening. The newspaper had not reported an earthquake, nor was there any construction work for a good few miles. The source of the low-pitched noise remained a mystery, leaving Arthur to pad around the house in his slippers, looking for answers.

Elsewhere, further North, another member of the Kirkland clan was searching, desperately, for what once was safely in his fridge. Malcolm Grant, the tall, broad-shouldered man with a head full of shocking red hair, had lost his Irn Bru, a liquid similar in colour to the hair atop the man's head. Little to his brother's knowledge, the quake had not been caused by plates in the earth or a drill cracking through the shell, but Malcolm's pained yell; his first reaction to opening the fridge and finding every single can of the drink to be missing. After hurriedly emptying the cabinets and turning over drawers, Malcolm stood amongst the wreckage, his hands tangled in his hair. Both arms dropped to the side in disbelief before pulling a packet of cigarettes and his lighter from a pocket, lighting it, and taking a well-needed drag.

The Scotsman planted himself on a chair, sitting on various crisp packets and other food items that had once lived in the cupboard, and took some time to think. The main culprit, of course, was _Arthur_. Just thinking of the name sparked a feeling of disgust in Malcolm. He did not love his brother; he did not _like_ his brother. The hatred that Malcolm harboured for Arthur was far beyond that of just a brotherlyquarrel.

_And now the bastard had taken his Irn Bru._

It was only a quick drive to Arthur's house. Malcolm had almost knocked the door down upon arrival. There was a squabble, which quickly turned to an argument. Arthur had denied having stolen 'that vile drink' and had somehow pushed Malcolm all the way down his garden and into the car, before returning to his house and locking the door behind him.

Now with no other suspects, Malcolm lazily drove back North. On the way, he had contacted both of his other brothers, Wales and Northern Ireland, who both told him that they had no idea who took the Irn Bru. For a moment, he had considered asking the other Ireland, but decided against any guilt-tripping that may have occurred, the passive-aggressive nature seeping through the phone.

The light above his car turned to red, and the Scotsman slowed down. Bored from the wait, he glanced out of the window. What he saw made him look again.

It was Francis, sitting on a park bench. It seemed that he had noticed the Scotsman, and gave him a short wave, as well as a large smile. Malcolm's eyes wandered to the bench, and what was placed next to Francis. Sitting there were five familiar orange and blue cans. Francis' smile screamed, _I took your drinks._

Malcolm tore himself from the car, thundered across the road and threw himself over the park fence. "_You_," he yelled, thrusting a finger at the smug blond on the bench, "Give me my fuckin' Irn Bru, you bastard."

Francis simply flicked his hand in Malcolm's direction and chuckled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

In a sudden movement, Malcolm's fingers curled around Francis' collar, and tugged the man from the bench, bringing his face closer to the Scotsman's. The smell of cigarettes and booze rolled off of Malcolm's breath.

"You took my Irn Bru."

"I do not know what that is, _mon cher_."

Malcolm gestured towards the cans on the bench, "I think you do."

It took a moment for Francis to understand what the ginger was talking about, but as soon as he did, his eyes lit up. "You mean _this_?" He laughed, "I just found that in your house! I tried some, but it tasted terrible!"

"You were in my _house_?"

"_Oui_, it is very stinky in there."

Malcolm shoved the Frenchman back into the bench. "I don't even give a shit," he grumbled, snatching the cans and making way back towards his car, where other drivers had began to become annoyed due to the obstruction.

"Oh, Malcolm?"

He threw the answer over his shoulder, "What?"

"I'll come over tomorrow and give you some _proper_ drinks, _oui_?"

Malcolm could only deeply inhale and grunt in return. He had no motivation to argue back. Now that he had recovered his precious treasure, he was fine. At last.


End file.
